The Best Laid Plans
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: All Roger wants to do is graduate. He has big plans- buckle down, study, pass with flying colors and get out of this hick town. But Mark Cohen manages to ruin them all and he doesn't even know it. Teen!Marker, for Elizabeth and Jessica/Emma. Oneshot.


**A/N: Greetings and salutations, readers! I'm back with more Marker funtimes for those of you that enjoy them! If you don't like Mark/Roger or graphic material, I suggest you turn back now. The rest of you, enjoy the ride! (Especially Elizabeth. I'm not sure why, but I feel like I should dedicate this to her) Reviewwwwwwwww.**

Disclaimer: _RENT certainly isn't in my possession. You can search me, I don't care. You won't find it._

**The Best Laid Plans**

There was a determined set to Roger Davis' jaw as he entered his English classroom on the first day of his senior year, setting down his binder and pen on the desk in the far right corner. This year would be different, he promised himself. He needed to graduate. He needed to get out of this puny town and head to the city with his guitar and his voice. He couldn't afford to fail again.

Of course, he couldn't _completely_ blame himself for failing last year. After all, he wasn't the one who told his parents to get divorced or who put the suicide idea into April's head. He wasn't the one who asked that damn counselor to pry into his business so often, to "invite" him down to his office two or three days out of every godforsaken school week until he just didn't want to go at all.

But he was the one who had given them all cause for concern. He was the one who started skipping class to smoke behind the bleachers. He was the one with the track marks dotting the crooks of his elbows and who stayed out late if he came home at all from the parties. And being caught in the bar by his mother, already drunk and high and fake ID in hand, well, that was the last straw.

Roger is going into this school year with a healthier mentality and addiction free. He doesn't have those things to stress him out anymore- he doesn't even look the same.

Smiling slightly to himself, the eighteen-year-old guitarist put his feet up on his desk as he sat, running a hand through his newly bleached hair. Scarsdale might be boring, but it still sold peroxide and nail polish and even eyeliner, although the lady at the counter had given him a strange look when he set it in front of her, expression carefully schooled. Thinking about it now made him laugh.

His new look was worth being called "faggot" three times already- even if he'd only been at school for fifteen minutes. He needed a change, something he could physically _see_ was different about himself. And here it was. The rocker boy look really works for him, too, so he's glad he did it. Especially the piercings, but none of them are currently visible.

He pulls out a notebook and flips it open to a random blank page, humming tunelessly to himself. There are something like two minutes before class starts and other people are filing into the room, chattering, but Roger figures he might be able to scribble down a few of the lyrics that have been floating around in his head all morning. Just as he uncaps his pen to do so, the bell rings and he hears someone collapse, breathing heavily, into the seat beside him. The kid, he glances up to see, is flushed and short and looking relieved as hell as he holds a hand to his chest, nearly doubled over.

Normally Roger wasn't the type to go out of his way to talk to anyone, but for a moment he hesitated. The blonde boy at the desk beside him is probably one of those freak accelerated freshman or something, maybe new- Roger's never seen him before, anyways, and he's pretty sure by now that he's seen every teenager in town and more. He licks his lips and lifts his head, looking around nervously- _yeah, probably new_- and his eyes finally land on Roger sitting next to him, staring at him wordlessly.

His eyes. _Holyshit_. His eyes are the biggest, bluest eyes Roger has ever seen, especially on a boy. He blinks in surprise and looks down, clutching his pen tighter and flushing as he stares at the blank page again. The lyrics in his head have ceased at just the wrong moment- either that or he's been thoroughly distracted, which is possible. Damn his latent bisexuality… The hairs on the back of his neck prickle; he's being watched.

"…Do you want something?" he mutters, looking up with a scowl. The younger boy flinches slightly but sends him an apprehensive smile, sticking out his hand for a handshake.

"I'm, uh- I, I- Hi, I'm Mark," he stammers out, biting his lip. Roger blinks again, flushing an even deeper shade of red as he reluctantly grasps the albino-pale hand offered to him in his own large, calloused one. It's been way too long since he's gotten laid. Mark's skin is soft and he has to resist the sudden impulse to stroke his thumb gently over the back of it. Just to be safe he jerks his hand away and scowls once more, averting his gaze.

There is a long pause, in which Mark remained awkwardly silent and Roger's mind raced. Fuck, fuck, he shouldn't start the year off like this. He should pay attention to the teacher as he sweeps into the room and starts roll call, because his name is in the first half of the alphabet and all, but now he's struggling just to keep the wrong sort of images from invading his brain-

Mark with that innocent little smile turned into a wide "o" shape, head thrown back in ecstasy below him, face just as red as it is now for different reasons-

No! Roger growls, pinching his arm beneath the table in punishment. No, Roger, bad Roger- he wishes he had one of those rubber bands on his wrist like he did in rehab over the summer to stop him from thinking about smack.

"Cohen, Mark?" the teacher reads, glancing up.

"Here!" Mark immediately yelps, sitting up straighter and looking timidly around at everyone's curious faces, gnawing his lip again. His already white knuckles have become even whiter clenched on the edges of his chair as they are, and Roger struggles not to think about how similar they'd look clutching at his headboard, bent over on his bed and moaning helplessly as Roger pounded-

Fuck! Not again! He groans, slamming his head down on the desk and muttering a sullen, "Here.", muffled against the desktop when his name is called. That bright blue gaze is burning into him again, inquisitive, and he knows that he's still blushing. Fuck.

He'd had high hopes for this year, of buckling down and paying attention and being the perfect student. And Mark Cohen, with his wide eyes and his cute, innocent smile, ruined it all with a single stuttering introduction.

**MRMRMRMRMR**

It takes two whole weeks before Roger is moaning out the blonde boy's name as he cums, sticky and shameful into his hand. He should be proud that he even lasted that long, really, because Mark certainly hasn't made matters easier for him these past weeks. All he can see every time he closes his eyes is that geeky, clumsy, adorably awkward boy with those big blue eyes of his.

It's in the way he leans into Roger's space to look at his paper when he doesn't understand what the teacher has been saying, biting his lip as he tries to decipher the other boy's spiky handwriting. It's the way he follows Roger around like a lost puppy, because by some stroke of fate he's ended up in all of Roger's core classes and he still has no idea where any of the rooms are. It's the way he gets that big grin on his face whenever someone praises him. Roger discovered this particular face the first time he compliments the other boy on the nimble way his fingers moved over the instruments in the chemistry lab.

He'd blushed- and now Roger imagines that pink flush spreading further down his neck and his chest- and smiled so wide that his face had nearly cracked in two, murmuring something about working with camera. The guitarist pants, mind racing with a million ideas for how they could use a camera if Mark would just spontaneously find his way into Roger's room, preferably naked.

"Fu-uuuuck…" he groans as he arches his back, thrust his hips up towards his hand. His mother isn't home and his father hasn't been around in weeks, and his jeans are pooled around his ankles as he pumps furiously at the raging erection he's had all goddamned day.

Behind his eyelids, Mark is bending over to pick up his pen again- but this time he's naked and Roger doesn't hesitate to smack his pale white ass. Then it changes- Mark is on his hands and knees now, groaning out his name as he twists his fingers inside of the smaller boy. _"Roger!"_

"MARK," he responds in earnest, and there is a flash of intense pleasure as he gasps out his orgasm, spilling into his hand, before the guilt crashes down on him.

**MRMRMRMRMR**

The next day and every day afterwards for a solid month, Roger can't meet Mark's eyes. The bespectacled boy seems hurt by this lack of attention but that doesn't deter him from acting more like Roger's pet than a boy his age. In fact, he seems to redouble his efforts to be the young songwriter's friend.

"Can I sit with you?" Roger blinks as he looks up at Mark in surprise. He's sitting on the grass behind the bleachers freezing his ass off, as it's mid-October and bordering on cold enough for snow, and this kid wants to do it too? He shrugs, trying to seem as though he seriously couldn't care less, but his heart is beating erratically.

Mark gives him a small, grateful smile and sits beside him with his brown paper bag lunch in hand. Roger is suddenly very jealous of the other boy's sweater as a biting wind blows by, sending chills through him.

"So… Why are you out here all alone?" Glancing up through his white-blonde eyelashes, Mark gives him that unsuspecting smile that always goes straight to his cock. Roger shifts uncomfortably, hands in his lap to disguise the bulge forming there. It takes him almost a full minute to respond, and by then his voice is rough with restrained desire no matter what he tries.

"Just… Don't like people. And they don't like me," he shrugs, trying not to meet the kid's eyes. Roger has gotten into a rather stupid habit of labeling Mark "kid" in his head even though he knows by now that Mark is just as much a senior as he is. As his eyes flicker up to meet Mark's nervously, he realizes that he's scooted closer to him, less than a foot away now. Their proximity makes him want to squirm- but, he reminds himself, Roger Davis doesn't squirm. Roger Davis is a stoic bastard who doesn't give a fuck about anything besides his guitar and his grades this year.

Yeah, real convincing.

"… I like you," Mark stutters eventually. He's looking down into his lap, twisting those pale hands together, and his face is practically glowing red. Roger realizes, heart in his throat, that it's not from the cold. His first reaction is to stand and leave. Run. Get away before he does something stupid, because this has become more than jerk-off material and is dangerously close to crush territory. But all he can do is stare stupidly, frozen, at the boy whose just given him the perfect opportunity to act out all of the fantasies that have been knocking around in his head since the very first day he knew him.

When it becomes clear that he isn't going to answer, Mark licks his lips and lifts his head again, twitchy as ever. His fingers tap on the paper bag as he glances anxiously around, finally opening it with a crinkle to reveal a bottled water and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut diagonally in halves, wrapped in plastic. He tears the plastic off as fast as he can in quick, jerky motions, and thrusts it under Roger's nose in offering.

"Thanks?" he says, confused as he takes it and tentatively takes a bite. Mark just shrugs, smiling again. Swallowing, Roger tries to elaborate- he doesn't want the kid to think he's starving himself or something just because he doesn't bother packing a lunch in the morning when he's already about to be late- but finds his words garbled by the peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Crinkling his eyebrows, Roger tries again and it comes out as, "I'b 'ot-" before he shuts his mouth again. There is a snort beside him, and he realizes that Mark is laughing at him, giggling actually. An odd fluttery feeling starts in his chest as he begins to laugh as well.

The tension is dissolved, miraculously. Maybe there was hope for this year after all?

**MRMRMRMRMR**

His friendship with Mark was deceptively innocent and simple from an outsider's perspective. Internally, however, Roger is a nervous wreck, picking apart the tiniest things for meaning that wasn't there. He's annoying _himself_ with it, always feeling like an obsessive girl with a monster crush, but he can't help overanalyzing.

What does it mean, for example, that the first thing the kid- Mark, he reminds himself again, not kid- gave to him was half of a sandwich? Does the sandwich symbolize two halves of a soul and does their consumption of the parts equally give them some creepy spiritual connection? Is it meant to represent himself- bland and generic but with a sweet explosion of hidden flavor somewhere within him? Is Mark hinting that he wants Roger to make _him_ a sandwich? Or is it just a fucking sandwich?

Roger has to admit that the last one is most likely, but that doesn't stop him from tugging his hair in frustration as he pores over the question for the sixtieth time. He's laying back on his bed with Mark sitting beside him, rummaging through his backpack for the pictures he had just recently gotten printed of the two of them over the last five months. His friend was babbling on happily about something trivial that Roger had stopped listening to five minutes ago, preoccupied with his cock throbbing at the very idea of Mark on his bed and his own twisted thinking.

It was early May and the final exams were approaching rapidly. Surprisingly, though, Roger felt prepared- he'd aced his midterms and kept his grades up for the entire school year with Mark's prodding. Except, of course, English. But that couldn't be helped. Killing an unwanted had-on was easier in classes that actually required his attention.

Mark had only become progressively more adorable as he'd gotten to know him. Roger found out that the smaller boy had been homeschooled almost his entire life, sheltered by his wealthy Jewish parents, and he knew practically nothing about sex and drugs and all of the, quote on quote, "nasty things in life". Although, from what he'd managed to stammer out when Roger questioned him about this, he knew all about masturbation.

And that in itself was enough to send Roger's teenaged hormones into an even more frenzied state…

Gazing at the blue-eyed boy who had, by some odd twist of fate, become his best friend, Roger bit his lip indecisively. He knew that if it was wrong to perv on a random kid from class, it was even worse to be fantasizing about someone you shared everything with. He ought to come out and say it, get it out in the open. And today… Today was as good as any day to just act on what he was feeling.

Then why was it so fucking hard? (his decision, not his dick- well, his dick too, but that wasn't the point)

"… Mark," he hears himself say, and he's already cursing his mouth for getting ahead of him, scrambling for his thoughts. The paler boy extracted his hand from the bag after his fruitless search and gave him a curious look. Those wide eyes are as unsuspecting as they'd been since the first day. He looked so corruptible that Roger wants to cum right there. Sitting up, he says, "C'mere."

Another reason that he's never going to get rid of his erection from hell is the eager way that Mark always follows his instructions. The blonde boy immediately moves closer, not even hesitating, and Roger finds himself helpless to resist the urge anymore; he reaches up, guitar-calloused hands gripping at Mark's jaw, the back of his neck, and pulls him down into a forceful kiss.

The bespectacled boy is stiff and unresponsive in the first moment, holding his breath, and Roger feels like his heart is literally in his throat trying to choke him. He knows this might be his only chance, and he can't just let it pass him by, so instead of waiting to see if Mark will relax he slides his tongue, hot and wet, along the other boy's lips in the most sensual manner he can. And somehow, against the odds, the mouth beneath his opens with a low groan.

Roger's eyes snap open in surprise even as he responds with his own moan and delves his tongue into Mark's mouth, disbelieving. The blonde boy's eyes have shut tightly in concentration and his hands are clenched in Roger's dark bedspread. He doesn't seem to know exactly what to do- he's so corruptible at that moment that the larger boy is already on the edge just thinking about all of the ways he could steal that near-childish innocence. He sits up and shifts until he's pressing Mark back into the bed instead- fuck his imagination, he has the real thing.

Mark's hands have found their way into his bleached hair and a whimper is drawn from between those chapstick-smooth lips as Roger trails his hands down his sides and to his waist. The guitarist breaks away, panting, to survey the damage he's just done to their friendship. It's beautiful, the way he's fucked it up. Mark is flushed and struggling to arch his hips up and tug Roger back down by the hair and holy fuck, Roger can't find the strength to argue.

"Are you- sure this is okay?" he mutters into the smaller boy's ear, one of his hands dipping slightly below his waistband to stroke at the skin just above where Mark wanted it most.

Those blue eyes open, staring at him with that same sweet, adoring look, and Mark nods with a dimpled smile. "Please?"

The images that have been dirtying his mind for months now come back with a vengeance and it's hard for Roger to suppress another groan but he manages. His bedroom has become an unimportant, blurred backdrop to the fulfillment of the first of many fantasy encounters. That guitar-calloused hand itched to go lower, but first…

"Pants. Off." He tries to soften his tone, not wanting to sound demanding. If Mark changed his mind it might kill him, but he would honor it. As usual, though, Mark is an obedient puppy, eagerly shimmying out of his corduroys on command. His baby blues never once leave Roger, constantly following some part of him- right now it's his face, then his hands, his back, every part of him lithe as a cat. It only serves to inflate the songwriter's ego. Roger prides himself on his sexual prowess. He knows exactly what to do and when- it's half-due to all of his fantasizing and half to all of the practice that he's had. Dating April didn't do him a whole lot of good, but at least it gave him experience.

And if he'd maybe once or twice fooled around with a couple of April's exes- with her encouragement, which probably should have disturbed him more- that experience wouldn't be going to waste, either.

Clad only in a plain t-shirt and a blue pair of boxers, Mark laid before him like some kind of wet dream come true. Roger had to swallow down the urge to flip him over and take him right then. Foreplay, he reminded himself sternly. Going slow. Going steady.

That only brought up a whole new host of ideas and questions, none of them even remotely sexual, but Roger had more pressing matters to attend.

He let himself go, giving in to his instincts. One hand kept a firm grip on Mark's hips and one pulled down the other boy's boxers, eventually managing to slide them down far enough that Mark's half-hard cock sprung free. Another struggle began, this one focused on his own dignity.

Okay, so he'd gotten this far. His best friend was half-naked, but the naked part was the half that mattered and they were alone in his house. He had Mark ready to bed for his touch, any touch, but which would he use? Hands, tongue, throat? Was he going to undress as well? How far did he really expect Mark to go?

The young photographer licked his lips out of anxiety, shivering below his more experienced friend. _So this was sex_. Roger amused himself for a brief second by imagining what Mark must be saying in his mind. Was he amazing him, showing him a whole new world of testosterone and bare skin and ecstasy?

Was that just his ego getting ahead of itself? Probably.

Finally, Roger decided on his first move almost without realizing it. He dipped his head down and licked a stripe up the side of Mark's neck, tasting the salty skin, and was rewarded with his friend's breath hitching audibly, chest heaving. Grinning to himself, he lowered himself so that their bodies were pressed together, continuing to work at Mark's neck. A nip there, a suck there, and a soothing lick before repeating the process, making a neat row of red marks all the way up his neck to his ear. Damn it if he hadn't waited long enough to mark his territory- no slut was going to take his Mark away from him now.

A pair of hands scrabbled at his shoulders, attempting to pull him closer with bitten nails and soft mewls of pleasure. Roger deliberately paused in his work and uttered a soft noise into Mark's ear, delighted by the jolt of response it made in the other boy's body. God, but this was too easy. He was just about taking advantage of this poor, inexperienced boy but he couldn't bring himself to stop now that he'd started.

"What do you want me to do to you?" he asked silkily, using his old stage voice for the first time in what seemed like forever. Mark groaned, spreading his legs slightly as though inviting Roger between them- _stop it, Roger! _The guitarist internally slapped himself for thinking that way so early in the game. He waited with baited breath for the blonde boy's answer, heart racing and hands itching to travel that pale body below his.

"I- I-… Shit…" Mark hissed, unable to articulate what he wanted. He stared up at Roger desperately, eyes hardly recognizable as blue anymore because his pupils had dilated so far. "I- I don't KNOW."

Contrary to his words, he reached for one of Roger's hands and brought it to his stomach, hinting heavily that he wanted it lower. That was all it took to set Roger in motion, sucking Mark's earlobe into his mouth and moving his hand down to brush teasingly over the tent in his friend's boxers. Mark keened, entire body trembling violently as he was touched _down there_ for the first time in his life. His hips bucked off of the mattress but Roger pushed them back down, relishing the control that he had. Shit, Mark just looked so damn perfect right now.

He was still wearing that shit-eating grin as he popped the button with enough force that he was afraid it would pop _off_ but he doubted Mark would even care at this point because his hand was already curling around the hot, hard appendage between his legs. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he admitted, voice low and dangerous and fuckkkkkkk, Mark felt so good in his hand. He stroked his thumb over the head and was rewarded with a choked moan, the other boy's face going so red he was surprised it wasn't on fire yet.

"Roger-" he whined, thrusting his hips forward, obviously too overwhelmed with all of the crazy lust and heat and friction. Roger was quite satisfied with this, though- how long had he waited to hear his name spoken like that?- and twisted his wrist on the downstroke as he began pumping his friend's aching erection, ignoring his own for the moment.

"Tell me." He demanded, grinding down on Mark's thigh, and the other boy moaned even louder. "Tell me what you want. How it feels."

"S-so good, Roger please-" he whimpered. His eyes were shut tightly now, squeezed together almost as if he couldn't believe this was happening, and his hands were clenched tightly in Roger's sheets until his knuckles turned white. It was a good look on him.

"I'm going to make you cum," Roger growled, and completely on a whim he leaned his head down and licked at the cum-slick head, hand tight around the shaft. He thought Mark might have a heart attack with the way he gasped and bucked up, so desperate it was almost amusing if it hadn't been so arousing. "Mmmm…"

"Oh God, Roger, Roger please Roger please!" He repeated it like a mantra, body taut and ready to snap, his hips straining towards Roger's mouth. The young guitarist smirked at his success, giving in and wrapping his lips around the tip of his friend's cock, sucking sharply as he stroked back down the length. In the confines of his jeans he felt his cock twitching and he hoped that he wasn't going to cream his jeans because he didn't want to embarrass himself quite that much in front of the guy he was trying to seduce.

"FUCK!" Mark exclaimed, trailing off into another moan. At this point Roger figured he'd tortured him enough, pumping at a furious pace, tongue teasing and flicking over the head, rubbing at the slit.

It wasn't long until Mark was choking again, this time because his orgasm had punched him in the gut and left him spurting cum up into Roger's mouth, falling back to the bed with a pitiful groan. Roger swallowed it all without batting an eye, grinning wickedly, giving his cock a few goodbye tugs as he rode out his orgasm and then tucked him away again, crawling up his body.

"You're loud," he commented, kissing at Mark's neck softly, hands trailing over his shoulders and up into his hair. Panting, Mark lurched up and tugged him down into a fiercer kiss, his smaller, softer hands groping for the front of Roger's pants and making him gasp as they found the bulge of his erection.

"S'my turn," he explained, still breathless, and all of a sudden Roger found himself being pressed back into the bed as Mark flipped them with surprising strength, following his example.

"Holy shit!" His green eyes went wide at the determined look Mark was sporting, incredibly turned on by his sudden confidence. "Y-you don't have to-"

"You're not the only one whose been horny for the past nine months," Mark muttered, ginger head ducking down so he could mouth over the hard-on through Roger's pants, making him see stars, hands tangling in that blonde hair.

"Ma-aaark!"

Roger had never imagined himself moaning Mark's name he'd always wanted Mark to moan his, desperate and eager. But he really couldn't complain. Not now. All he'd wanted was to pass, to graduate and get out of here. And somehow this year had turned out to be everything he wanted and more.

Mark Cohen…

It had only taken one single stuttering, introduction.


End file.
